Roaming With A Hungry Heart
by deepandlovelydark
Summary: Jack wasn't figuring on giving up anything for Lent; but until Mission City's police find his cab, it looks like he'll have to. And Mac's not so sympathetic, these days. Between "First Kisses" and "Second Chances".
1. Chapter 1

_Jack's POV. 1989, while Murdoc's dating Mac in Mission City._

 _XXXXXXXXXXXXXX_

...nobody took me seriously at first, not even Mac, who grinned at me and asked if I'd had one too many the night previous. But I never did drive drunk- well, I try not to, that's a bit too much of a risk for a taxi driver. And that Tuesday night I hadn't been drinking at all, even.

So it wasn't until Thursday morning, when I couldn't take Sergeant Olson's wife up to Duluth to visit her cousins, that the police started taking an interest in the matter. Lackadasically, but it was something.

"I mean, I've gone over this town with a fine tooth comb now, it's definitely missing! Who'd even want to steal my beat-up wreck of a cab, anyway?"

"Could be gang activity," Olson said, with considerable gusto. For a born Missionary and a cop, he shows the occasional sign of a lively imagination. "Grabbing a vehicle for a quick getaway- well, I'll send out an all-points bulletin, but no promises. It's probably miles away by now."

"Really. Is that all I get for my hard-earned taxpayer money?"

"Oh, hush up," he said dismissively. "You've had the benefit of the doubt more than once around here, you can extend us the same courtesy."

He had a point there, but I wasn't gonna admit as much. "Great. Just great. And what am I supposed to do for an income now, huh?"

"You have car insurance, don't you? Pony up the cash for a copy of the police report when I'm done filling one, and you can send it along."

Mac must have noticed me twitching; he guided me out of the office double-quick. "You do have insurance, yes?"

"Uh...the basic one, I paid the premiums up to date. I think."

Maybe I'd act up less around him, if he wasn't so cute when he groans. "See, on the jeep- back when I had the jeep, anyway, I made a point of having comprehensive insurance so it'd be covered if anybody stole it. But that's only if you paid the extra fee for it."

He pays a lot of attention to the technical side of things, ever since that screwed-up patent business landed him in hot water; while I like calling spades shovels. "What you're saying is, I'm up a creek."

"Basically. But it's not that bad, is it? You still have your plane."

"For which I still haven't logged enough flight hours to be flying commercial yet. And those suckers drain away money like anything."

"Then sell it again. You can buy yourself the best cab ever made for that much money."

See, I knew that theatre guy has been messing with his head but bad, I've had enough time to kinda get to terms with that. But I hadn't realised just how clueless the relationship's been making him. It's like he can't see a situation from anybody else's point of view anymore.

"Angus MacGyver! Flying's always been my dream, you know that! No way am I selling her, no way am I dipping into my plane fund. I'd starve first."

"Mmm. Well, you've picked the right season for it, Lent started yesterday."

"...oh, cripes, this is the worst time of year for me. Nobody ever wants to go anywhere or buy anything until Easter."

"Then you haven't missed out on much, have you? Maybe your cab will show up again before it's all over."

"I think you've appropriated my boundless optimism. Give it back."

"Figure out how first. I won't try to stop you."

"Are you two going to stand in my police station gossiping all day?" Olson yelled at us.

So we trudged out into the delights of hard-packed Minnesota snow, me still grumbling. "I mean, I appreciate your coming along...but geez, you could stand being a little more sympathetic. I'm in serious trouble if I don't get that cab back."

"You have the equivalent of a couple hundred thousand dollars stuffed up north in that hanger, and you're too bull-headed to even think about turning it to your advantage. Forgive me for not finding this a terribly sympathetic problem."

So I was maybe more snippy than I needed to be, next line. "You do realise that if I'm carless, there's nobody to drive you and Becky around when you need a lift?"

"Oh, we'll be fine. Last time Jacques was in town, he was practically begging me to take his Jag out of the garage sometimes. Says that he figures cars do better if they're exercised regularly- just like my grandpa always said, you know."

"Then, if you've got a car..."

"No way am I letting you borrow it. Wouldn't want you losing that one too, you know," Mac said, and had the absolute gall to chuckle at me.

Like I said. He's just not the same these days.

 _XXXXXXXXXXXXXX_

Usually when I've got a problem, I'd chat about it with Mac, or Katie, my no-strings sweetheart of a barkeep next town over. Only I couldn't get there now, either. Or to my aircraft hanger, or the cheaper supermarket 'cross town, or to my favourite Tex-Mex restaurant over in Elkson, which serves the only decent chili this side of the Twin Cities...I mean, Minnesota's backwoods are wide and spacious and good-looking, if you like that kinda thing, but definitely meant to be traversed by car. Not having one in the bush is a nice slow death sentence.

But I'm interrupting myself; in the absence of better help, I showed up at the coffee shop early Saturday morning, seeking Becky Grahme for advice. Nice enough kid, if a trifle inclined to idolise an uncle who doesn't really deserve it- but then, I can't blame her for pinning all her hopes on the one relative standing between her and disaster. Did that myself. Anyway, she has a smart head on her shoulders and wants out of Mission City ASAP, which is a sure sign she's already turning out better than the elder generation.

"So why can't you buy another one? Unc says...well. That you have a lot more money than you want to let on about." She's inherited the family knack for dry understatement. Allison was just that way too, as I recall.

"Yes n' no. Yes, I have a fair bit stashed away, but in actual practice, I can't use any of it, because it's all earmarked for hanger fees and fuel and things- and moving expenses, don't forget. Next year I'm going to Texas, one way or another."

"I know I'd miss you, but- what if you went now?"

"Not too helpful. I doubt I could get flight lessons on the cheap anywhere else." Ms Henderson and I have a tasty little arrangement; I pay for the plane, she instructs me and gets to sneak flights whenever she's jonesing for a fix. What a fanatic like her is going to do when I'm gone, I honestly don't like to think. "And besides, I'd still need something to live on for another year. At least my Wednesday gig here keeps the lights on."

"Oh, so you'll have to find something else to do. Sooner rather than later, I guess?"

One thing I do like about Becky: she is spectacularly bad at recognising the possibility of failure. "Sure. And I can think up a dozen nice little earners, down to and including the horrors of gainful employment, but not in Mission City. I do have a reputation to think of- and so does everybody else."

"What if I borrowed the Jag? And drove you out of town somewhere."

That one's a stunner. "You'd do that for me? Mac would be furious, you know that."

"I...I don't think he'd be that angry with me, just for helping out a friend."

That's what she said. The sharp line that replaced her smile told me that she's observed the same things I have; that Mac's wrapped up in his darling Englishman, and increasingly snappish to anybody who gets between them. "Thanks for the offer, but I'll manage. Always do, you know. But anybody can tell you I like to do my share of griping about it first."

"If you say so. But- hey, until you do, why don't you take my Saturday tips? That's definitely my money, I can do what I like with that. And it's only fair, after the way you helped us out during that rough patch in January. Everybody going on diets and giving up desserts until Valentine's."

I'd honestly forgot all about that. "Beck, it'd take an absolute toad to take the hard-earned funds of an overworked teenager, and I'd like to think I'm not that amphibious - are you crying?"

"Maybe a bit," she said, sniveling in a slightly undignified fashion. "I get scared when people I love are in trouble. Especially when they won't let me help."

Her mother would probably have diagnosed it with some fancy long phrase, like a trauma-triggered phobia or whatever. To me, it spelled out the difference between heat and huddling under every blanket I have until summer. Minnesota's got a cruel climate for an expat Texan.

"Mac would never do this," I couldn't help observing, as she tipped the jar into my waiting hands.

"Well. He can't be right all the time."

If even wide-eyed Becky is starting to doubt her uncle, there is definitely something wrong with the man.


	2. Chapter 2

"Go away," Chuck said, not budging an inch.

I couldn't believe my ears; after going to all the trouble of getting up early enough for a Sunday service, and staying awake through the whole thing, I thought I'd made a good faith effort. Enough to warrant some cheap bread and margarine and Vienna sausage, at least. "I thought this was a food pantry. I'm here, I'm hungry, what more do you want?"

"You're not a member of the church," he said, tapping his thumb. "There's a sign-up roster that you didn't put your name on, so you're here out of turn. You can come back around five, and I'll see if there's anything left then."

"...the hell? Do I have to sign up for the draft, too?"

"And don't swear on sacred ground," Chuck said, playing around with the butt of his rifle.

Long-term gratification is not my wheelhouse. Never has been.

"Seems to me that thing is a lot more of an obscenity," I said, and flipped the gun out of his reach. It went flying out the window, cracking the pane in a supremely satisfying fashion.

"Whoa!"

"You can blame Jack Dalton for that!" Chuck yelled.

I snickered at him- turning everything into a joke is really the only way to handle some people- and headed outside to see if I could actually be some help. Luke Aidell was standing there with two full bags of groceries, looking puzzled at the weapon that'd clearly just missed braining him.

"Sorry about that," I said, shoving it back inside with slightly more caution, this time. "Deacon and I were having a little theological dispute. What are you doing here, anyway? I thought your family was on easy street, after you bought that lottery ticket." Too bad I couldn't be the one to score, but they're not a family you'd particularly object to winning a windfall like that. They're like so many Golden Retrievers; loyal to a fault, good-looking, dumb as a bag of bricks.

"Oh, no, this is all donations for the church," Luke explained. "Want anything?"

I helped myself to a loaf of soft sweet potato bread and a couple of tins of corned beef. Chuck glowered at me through the window.

"Thanks. Always good to see that some people still believe in Minnesota nice."

"Maybe it's not so charitable as all that," Luke said, turning abruptly bashful the way teenage boys do. "Can I, uh- can I ask you about something?"

If I'd known what he was going to ask, I'd have handed the groceries right back over and told him to keep it.

Well. Probably.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Used to be, Becky wouldn't trust anybody but her uncle to test pond ice for skating; she used to insist he come and have a look at it however many people had trampled over it that day. These days she's expanded the short list to Miss Eudora, of all people (that old librarian is the best skater in town, funnily enough) and yours truly.

Not that I can just look at it and know for sure, like the natives can. I just stomp all over the place and see if it gives way. A ducking's a great excuse for hot chocolate and sympathy.

"Becky," I called out.

"Mmm?" she asked, not looking up from her knitting.

Good start for the conversation. If only I'd figured out the rest. "There's some scuttlebutt going around town about you and Luke Aidell. Mind my asking if it's true?"

The trouble with interrogating somebody in this weather, what bits of them that aren't already rosy are covered up snug. Still, her body language suggested the subject was about as interesting as pork futures. "Again? We were...well, I guess we were hanging out for a while, after that big heroic rescue and everything. But I've been studying pretty hard this year, I haven't really had time for that sort of extracurricular."

"Don't burn yourself out or anything. You're only young once." I slipped off the ice, with a comedy near-pratfall routine that I ought to get the patent on one of these days. Becky rolled her eyes.

"Since it's just us two...okay, I went off him when he started telling me all about his plans for the future. He's one of those people who has his dream house all worked out, right down to the color of the faucets, and how he wants cherrywood bedroom furniture and everything...oh, and he wants it right here in Mission City. So that was a big no-no."

"Good for you," I couldn't help saying. Before realising how awkward the segue was gonna be.

Right thing to say, though; a certain edge that had been creeping into her voice vanished. "So you're not going to ask me to do anything, are you? Like ask him to buy you a new taxi?"

"No."

"Oh. Good."

"But the funny thing was, he came and asked me instead. A whole thousand smackers on the line, with my name pencilled on them. Know why?"

She considered. "Because Unc would chase him all the way to Montana for even suggesting I could be bought like that."

"Sort of, but that's not exactly the point. Story goes like this," I said, letting my voice lapse into something slower. "Back in the '60s, dear old Aidell Senior was chasing the girl of his dreams- well, I say chasing, it was more like an easy stroll. He had just that same kind of attitude, completely sure of himself, and he was the only one who was surprised when Ella lost patience with him and went on a date with Neil Ryder. Of course, we all told him that she just wanted to get his attention, but he freaked out. Said he'd never go on a date ever again and his heart was irretrievably broken, et cetera."

"I take it you did something," Becky said, mouth twitching.

"Love potion number nine. Mac said it was extortion charging him for a bottle of food colouring and vodka, and I told him that some people won't believe in anything unless they can put a price tag on it. So he bought it and she drank it and they got engaged next week."

"...Jack, that's creepy. That's maybe the creepiest thing you've ever told me."

"Why? I tipped her off about it- and a good thing I did, too. You never saw anybody make such a hash of slipping a mickey, he spilled half of it over his own shirt." I laughed a bit. She didn't.

"I dunno. It's just, I always look up to you, and Unc, but then sometimes you come out with incredible stuff like this, and I, well...I don't even know some times."

Thus goeth a perfectly good plan down the drain. I haven't hustled this long without knowing when I need to fold, fast; why Becky respects me at all is a mystery for the ages, but I'm oddly reluctant to relinquish it now. "So Luke's been brought up hearing this story, and he wanted a little bit to try out on you. Thought I'd check to see if history was repeating itself, just in case."

She picked up the forgotten ice-skates, holding them protectively in front of her like a set of knives. "No way am I ever going out again with a guy who wanted to brainwash me into things. That's it. We're absolutely through."

"Hang on! At least invent a good reason to call it all off, before you read him the riot act. He'd be very embarrassed to know an adult tattled on him like this."

"He deserves to," Becky said. "And worse. Huh, a thousand dollars..."

Come on, I couldn't help thinking. Ask me how to scam him, I could dream up half a dozen types of ironic retaliation gratis, with each of us five hundred dollars to the good afterwards. Becky's probably never had that much money in her entire life; it'd free up a lot of her arts and crafts time for extra studying next year. Or just finding some time to sleep, heaven help her.

"I can't do it," she said, and glanced at me a little disconsolate. "I mean, I know it's sitting right there. I know we could use the money and everything, and I just bet you could tell me what to do- but I can't pretend to be interested in somebody who'd do a thing like that. I just can't. It's- it's so stupid."

"As a matter of interest," I said, very matter of fact. "Can't, or won't?"

"What's the difference?"

"Won't is if you just don't want to. Can't is if you'd fail if you tried it...which, you know, is fair enough. Not everybody's cut out for diddling."

Her family never could resist a challenge, but I fade off there. "So what colour faucets does Luke go in for? Only now I'm curious."

"I think he called it oatmeal cream," Becky confessed. "Tell the truth, I'd maybe stopped listening to him at that point- oh, Jack, he was just so boring sometimes!"

Could go either way, I figured. Let her sleep on it, decide for herself whether her better angels would win out or not.

Unfortunately, I'd forgotten to reckon with her uncle.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Technically speaking, I'm not supposed to give blood these days.

Technically speaking, that's all purest baloney- they have a perfectly good AIDS screening for blood these days, and I've been a lot more careful the last few years anyway, seeing how it's my life on the line. If I had managed to catch anything serious before then, I'd be dead of it by now- and they ought to realise that offering money for blood just encourages liars. That's the free market at work for you.

At least, that's what I was telling myself, while sipping apple juice and trying to remember how to sit up straight. Truth is, I wasn't exactly feeling that great about myself.

"I should have guessed!"

Grogginess is wonderful for coping with surprises, such as what a barista's doing ten miles away from his hometown in the middle of the day. Normally I'd have panicked, hearing that voice sounding that furious with me; as it was, my brain just burrowed down and started working out escape plans.

"What's the most contemptible, low-down thing you could possibly be doing, I should have guessed right off- Jack, how did you even get here?"

"Borrowed your niece's bike."

"Stole it, you mean. You can't take his blood," Mac said impatiently to the rather confused nurse flitting about his elbow. "He's lying. You'll probably kill anybody unfortunate enough to get stuck with his."

"Sir, if you could please just calm down. There's no need to make a scene-"

I had thirty dollars in my pocket and a filched bottle of juice in my coat lining; there wasn't any reason to stick around. Timing was the tricky bit; but the moment that the two of them were more preoccupied with each other than me, I slipped off the cot and ducked into the back. Most dodgy clincs like this provide lots of exits, bless their hearts.

Smart thing to do would have been heading round the back to get the bike. Cheeky thing would have been making off with the two-tone Jag that'd have to be parked around here somewhere.

But a certain amount of laziness is often an asset, in situations like this; I clambered up the fire escape to the roof, and rolled myself over the parapet to start listening, hard. Resist the temptation to peek, in situations like this; peeking is what gets you caught. Angry voices downstairs, one of them Mac's. Footsteps. The rattle of a bike chain, the sound of a car driving off.

All easy enough to interpret. Walking home wouldn't be much fun, but before I could even think about that I needed a nap. Thank god for flight jackets; they're made to handle sub-zero temperatures by design, which means mine is just about able to cope with a Northern spring. I pulled the zipper tight, cleared a cosy little nest in the snow, and went straight into this really weird dream about living ships that eat each other.

I was just figuring out which team's colours I wanted to cheer on, when a nice solid kick in the ribs brought me straight back to reality.

"Mac, how'd you even find me?"

"I noticed how much snow had fallen off the fire escape, when I came in. You nudged some of it off when you came up here."

There's no getting away from a guy like that. There really isn't.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Twenty minutes and one town over, Mac dragged me into his cafe and locked the door on us. I was planning to make a beeline for the coffee pot, but unbelievably the thing was cold and empty.

"Did you shut down your shop for half a day just to come looking for _moi_? Should have mentioned. I'd have cleared my schedule."

"Shut up."

I shut up, allowing him the full opportunity to recognise the tactical mistake he'd just made. He scowled in recognition of this and set about brewing himself some tea, the heavy-duty stuff theatre guy likes. The smell's strong enough they ought to put a biohazard warning on it.

On the other hand, it was also hot, and something you could dissolve sugar in, and after a bike ride and a blood letting I'd have drunk chicory. "Can I have some?"

"Don't you ever get tired of being that greedy all the time? Does it ever, even for one second," Mac said, pouring every last drop of the hot water into his solitary cup. "Does it ever occur to you to look at the world as anything besides a toy you want to take, at all costs?"

"Mac. I'm tired, I need lunch in the worst way. I'm not in any shape to figure out riddles this morning, so just spit out whatever you want to say so I can agree and go home already."

"You're not even going to try to defend yourself, is that it? You don't even have that much of a basic human instinct?"

"Are you going to explain this any time soon, or do you just want to wait until I fall asleep on your table?" Actually, the tea was smelling better than usual. I wondered what it'd be like with enough cinnamon and hot milk.

"Becky. She told me all about your conversation yesterday."

"For the love of Pete," I said, not even bothering with intonation. "I told her exactly what Luke told me. Seemed to me she might want to know that much."

"But that's not what it was all about, was it? You wanted to, to suck her into one of your nasty, filthy scams, make her just as bad as you are, have her sell herself for money-"

Time was, seeing that much anger and grief on his face would have just about broken me in half. That was before Jacques showed up, though; I guess I'm a little tougher these days. "All right, so I told her that she could probably make a good thing out of it, if she wanted. Nothing more than that, okay? I didn't encourage her, I didn't tell her what to do, I just pointed out what was possible."

He spent quite a while shouting, while I propped my head against my arm and tried to shut down the part of my mind that was having violent Wisconsin flashbacks. Arguments don't do that to me, but screechy one-way monologues do, particularly on an empty stomach.

Sometimes, though, the only way to handle it is to let them tire themselves out. Eventually he wound down, eventually he remembered the dregs of lukewarm tea, which he finished while I watched and tried not to swallow.

"Did any of that lodge itself in your skull?"

"That's all nonsense and you know it. Mac, don't tell me you've become a by-the-book moralist now, after the life we've had."

"That is exactly what I've been trying to tell you, ever since Becky arrived," Mac said, sounding curiously normal all a sudden. "I have to be the role model that she needs. And no matter how often you keep trying to drag me back down into the mire, I'm not going to let me keep you there."

I started laughing. I couldn't help it; my nerves were just about shot. "Sweet lord. You're not actually going to try to live up to Becky's idealisation of you, right? Because that's impossible. The kid's got you on a pedestal about six miles high- and if you ever did make it, you'd suffocate under the weight of your own ego. Pretend otherwise and you're just going to explode one of these days."

He didn't hit me. He raised his hand to do it, but he didn't hit me.

"I should have just gone with my original instinct. Instead of trying to talk to you."

"So what was that?"

It wasn't a good smile he turned on me, then. "Not talking to you."

Some of my timing and delivery advice must have rubbed off on him; it was a good one-liner to leave on, so he left.

I passed out about thirty seconds later. I'd like to think that he didn't hear me thumping down, overturning the chair and bruising my elbow pretty painfully.

It probably isn't true, but I'd like to think so.


	3. Chapter 3

Dirty little secret, the one that Mac's never been able to get to grips with; everybody in Mission City loves him.

They tolerate me. They accept Becky. But Mac's a born and bred local, their high school golden boy, the one who stayed here for love when every bit of logic and sanity said he ought to leave for better pastures. He runs the cafe that's the thumping heart of our town, he loves bad boys (and how!) with just the appropriate dollop of church-sanctioned guilt. Also, he's a total and abject failure who nevertheless always pulls through somehow, and people lap up that kind of shtick. Just look at tightrope walkers.

Point is, he's their sweetheart, and they've been waiting thirty years for his stubborn facade to crack so they can do something for him in return. He's more than earned that much, I'd have to agree. I just wish there was something else he could have thought to do with all that goodwill.

Because this is the situation now; nobody in town's talked to me for an entire week.

They'll ignore my money, if I insist on shoving my way to the front of a queue that won't acknowledge me. They'll push me aside, if I plant myself in a doorway- and under no circumstance will they breathe one single, solitary word in my direction. It's like I don't exist. Worse. Lots of people talk to things that don't exist.

I've been trying one loony stunt after another. I dug out a bullhorn and apologised to Mac at ninety decibels, I spray-painted the pavement in front of the cafe. I sat in the front seat of the Jag, yesterday; he spent two hours running errands and ignoring me. Maybe I should have tried sitting on the hood. Maybe he'd have revved up the engine and run me over.

I mean, even if my cab did show up again, it wouldn't be any use now. Nobody in Mission City is ever going to call me again, the way things are going.

So I have to get out of town, for my own welfare and sanity. And I will. Just as soon as I manage to get in a word with Becky.

Cos heaven help both of us, but I know what it's like being left with a guardian who's starting to crack at the corners- and if there's the slightest chance that anything like this is happening to her too, I need to know. Funny how these things work out. Before this all started, I'd have sooner figured on flying to the moon than kidnapping.

Now I'm getting desperately worried it'll be her only way out.

XXXXXXXXXX

"You've gone mad," Ellen says. "Asking me for help with anything. We don't trust each other."

Ellen MacGyver was always wrong; but Ellen Jericho isn't any improvement. I still haven't forgiven her the marriage, but she knows that and I know that and so we can get on with our lives without actually talking about it any.

"I'm not asking you for help, as such. I'm asking you to make sure that a vulnerable teenager is still in a safe place."

"Suppose she isn't, but I lie to you about it."

Sometimes I wonder what would have happened, if Mac hadn't always been there between us. Her jailbird of a father gives her the dubious distinction of being the only other person in town to be publicly alienated, with all that entails in a town clinging to the ideal of unbreakable pioneer families. It's not that dark things don't happen here, behind closed doors; but we're the only two who dragged them out, talked about them, cut our way through the platitudes with sarcasm and patience and maybe a little too much liquor.

Thing is, both of us preferred somebody with more cheer than understanding. No wonder Mac went down under our combined weight.

"Suppose you don't," I say, munching my way through a watercress sandwich. Her tea's not up to much, but under the circumstance it's more than I was expecting. "All I want to know is whether Beck's okay, then I'll get out of Mission City and everybody's hair for good. I figure even you wouldn't mind that."

There's a sound of a doorknob turning. Ellen flinches, but has herself in good order again by the time Ralph enters.

"Mr Dalton," says he, languid as a jellyfish. "And what did you feel you need to discuss with my wife, may I ask?"

"Piloting gigs," I say, very meekly. "I know I didn't impress you much on that trial flight-"

"You obliterated the entire east wing of my house. I should say you didn't."

"Anybody can make a mistake," I offer.

Can't blame him for giving me the squint-eye. In his shoes I'd probably be pulling just the same face.

"Sorry. Again."

"Leave now. Before I call out the entire Mission City police force on you."

"They wouldn't be able to read me my rights anyway," I say, and leave him to puzzle over that one.

XXXXXXXXXX

Becky shows up that night around eleven, just as I'm taking the jello out of the fridge. All three bowls of it.

"Throwing a party?"

"Supper. No one in town's acknowledging my existence any more, so I'm sorta scraping the barrel here."

"Working on that. Maybe you should have tried shop-lifting," she jokes.

"Don't think the thought didn't occur to me." And I probably would have tried it, if I hadn't figured at the last second that somebody might be waiting for me to get busted. Maybe a lot of someones. "Want any? Lime or raspberry or butterscotch."

"Uh- a little butterscotch, I guess. Not a whole lot." She hands me a cardboard tube, the ends jammed up with paper towel. "Ellen let me out the back with her key- would you believe the locks are still the same? She said to give you this."

Inside there's two chocolate bars and a fifty dollar bill, with a scribbled line on it. If I were you, I'd leave town now.

Probably has a point there. "Thanks," I say, dishing up a couple of plates. If it'd been just me I'd have scoffed it straight from the bowl, but Becky never quite relinquishes a certain classy neatness even in my tumbledown trailer. Which isn't especially like any MacGyver I ever met; maybe that's inherited from her dad's side, for a change. "At least I'll have my choice of sugars for breakfast tomorrow."

"I'm sorry. I should have thought of bringing you something from the shop."

"Don't be. I'd hate to think you were developing the kind of instincts Ellen and I had to." That's so much hokum- I'd love some protein right about now- but this is my first conversation in days and I refuse to let it trail off this quickly. "So everything is all right with you? Your uncle's not mad at you or anything?"

"Me? No. Fact is, he's spent the last couple of days trying to cheer me up."

Too empathetic for her own good, sometimes. "Worrying about me, you mean?"

"About you. About Unc, and Jacques, and...Jack, it used to be that I felt like I could tell him anything. I mean it. Anything at all."

"It's never going to be reciprocal, if that's what you're asking." Bright or no, she's still a child in plenty of ways, and Mac has some secrets that'll go with him to the grave.

"I don't mind that. I know you two share some things I don't need to hear about."

Trade-off to an annoying eye-twitch; nobody will ever catch me blushing. "But now you've realised that sometimes, things are best left well enough alone?"

She sighs. "I guess so. Learning that stuff has consequences. If I'd just kept quiet, you could have told Luke no, and I could have pretended the whole thing didn't happen, and we could have got on with life. Instead everybody's spent a week mad at you and Luke's getting off scot-free. Worse. Now I'm dating him."

"Beck, you didn't!"

"Ironic, isn't it? There's no other reason I'd even think about it, but it was the only way I could think of to end this whole silly farce...I had to back-pedal pretty hard, told Unc that since I'd been thinking about dating Luke anyway, he didn't need to be so mad about your encouraging me. So I think I'll be able to convince him to make everyone ease up on you...at least he had the sense to leave me out of that conversation. Just told everybody that you and he were having a disagreement, and then they all went creepy lockstep on us."

The look she's giving me now is definitely not her uncle's (he'd look guiltier), or her mother's (that'd be more calculating, and curious), or even hers (I do catch the odd glimpse of somebody very much herself in there, when she thinks nobody else is looking). No, what I'm seeing just now is me. Exactly the kind of "bottoms up, let's see if this'll work" expression that I sometimes catch sight of in a barroom mirror, halfway through working a deal.

Geez. So much for telling myself I'm no more than a glorified babysitter; just by being around, I'm apparently shaping this kid in lots of unforeseeable, probably highly questionable ways.

(That is _terrifying_.)

"Please say you're dumping him at the earliest possible opportunity."

"He took me out to the Gray Goose," Becky says, a little dreamily. "And he bought me this gorgeous purple school bag to replace the one I've been patching together for three years. I mean, it's one thing not caring too much about stuff like my family or that commune. But it's another to have to listen to the girls making fun of my handmade clothes all the time, and not being able to buy books without worrying about my budget...Jack, I'd never ever say this to Unc, but sometimes I get a little sick of it. I mean, I know it's not his fault."

This is something Ellen would do, that I'd do; though carefully.

And it's something that Mac's been rubbing in her face, ever since theatre guy; that it's okay to accept all kinds of favours and goodies as long as the passion's pure enough, sincere enough. No wonder he managed to work up such a temper; it must have finally sunk in what he's been doing all this time, carrying on with a flirt who's offering him the moon without asking anything. He must know by now he won't be getting something for nothing.

Maybe this'll snap him out of it. Maybe he'll come back to me, now.

Maybe my Mac's tired the same way Becky is.

"Too bad I'll have to give it back," she says.

"Give what back?"

"The schoolbag. When I tell him I'm not going to the end of year dance with him, and return all the stuff he bought me. I wish I knew how I'm going to justify that to him, though. I don't have any idea how I'll explain my way out of this."

Maybe the bearing's a little awry, but I guess she still has her moral compass. "You know what? I could mix up an anti-love philtre for you to take to school. That way you won't have to justify anything. And you can tell Mission City that Mac got mad at me because I was...ooh, trying to matchmake without asking him about it, and he didn't like that. Which is at least half-true." So Mac will come out the hero again. It's easiest to just run with people's prejudices.

"Oh, Jack, that's brilliant! You're a genius!"

She accidentally knocks over the lime jello, on her way to hug me; it goes splat all over the floor.

"Sorry."

"Don't worry about it. Everybody has the occasional Penny."

"The occasional- Jack, that's mean."

"If I apologise to her tomorrow, will you take this fifty and get me some real food for a change?"

"I'll do better than that," Becky promises. "I'll tell Luke to get you something super-fancy. If Luke really does think that I've been taken in by a love potion you whipped up, it shouldn't surprise him if you stuck something in to make me want to help you."

Jello is the damnedest thing to sweep up. "You know, I'm worrying now that I taught you too well."

"At least you're not telling me to ignore my instincts." She looks troubled. "That Jacques is a creep, and Unc just doesn't seem to realise it."

"Unfortunately, that's one problem I'm not gonna be able to fix with a fake love potion."

But compared to the twelve-car pileup that's been my life this last month, my much-beloved ex carrying on with someone else seems almost surmountable. And it'll be a lot more so, after a proper meal and a good night's sleep.

"So. When you say super-fancy, what are we talking about? Cos last I checked, nobody in Mission City is getting takeout until I have my cab back..."


	4. Chapter 4

"I want to marry you."

This is not going according to plan.

"I love you," Luke breathes, thickly sincere. He's cuddling Becky enthusiastically, always one of her weak points. "I want to make you happy, Becky sweet..."

"Jack Dalton," Mac says, conversationally (too loudly if you ask me, we're only two tables away from them). "If you don't get her out of this tonight, that stupid cap of yours is going to discover an exciting afterlife as shredded confetti."

"Was it my idea to make this a public breakup? No. No, it wasn't."

That's the worst bit about this. We're not in the cafe, where in a pinch Becky could always have been rescued on the pretext of some chore or other; we're at the Pioneer Buffet, favourite Missionary watering hole. I can't understand the appeal of the place, myself- everything's watery and utterly tasteless- but it's always packed. Mostly with Luke's friends, tonight.

Popular kid, just like Mac was. Too bad he didn't have someone like me around to salt up the mix.

"What I said," I hiss at my dinner partner, "was that she ought to let the kid down gently and quietly, somewhere private. And instead, you insisted that she dump him in the most public way possible, just to show that she couldn't be bought- and that's how this happened! You got her into it, you find her a way out!"

"Look," Becky rallies. "I couldn't ever marry you, okay? I miss home too much. Minnesota's never going to be like Oregon for me, everybody in town knows that."

"Then if that's what you want, I'll follow you back to the Pacific. Or anywhere else you want to go, traveling or anything else you like. You're worth it, you know that."

She has the look of a small child realising that they've eaten too much cake: dazed, amazed, right on the verge of throwing up. Glances towards her uncle for help, but Mac's evidently shell-shocked; all too evidently wondering how much better his life would have been, if somebody had made him an offer like that.

(Of course, I did _._ But then, I didn't have a small fortune to back me up.)

The teenagers start chanting, enthusiastic and obviously meaning well. "Do it! Do it!"

She leans back in her chair, small frightened thing, alone and helpless amongst the cheering throng. I stand up, plate of raisin pie in hand.

"Will you?" Luke asks, as he draws a box from his pocket. "My own sweet Rebecca?"

She blinks. Twice; and draws away from him.

"Rebecca? _Seriously?_ "

"But it's your name," he protests, obviously bewildered.

Breathing fast, she draws a pale greenish bottle from her pocket, the one I've given her.

"Y'know, when Jack gave me this antidote and told me to drink it, I said no at first. You know why? Because it was sweet being in love, and you were nice, and I liked you- and I thought, maybe you knew me. But you don't, you literally don't know the first thing about me!"

The chanting's long since stopped. Everybody's keen to hear.

"I know you're the most exciting thing to ever happen to me," Luke pleads. "C'mon. Don't be so heartless."

Becky uncaps the bottle, and drinks it down in one gulp, and stares steadily at him for a good fifteen seconds.

"It's funny," she says. "But I don't feel one bit different now. Guess I shook off that love potion all by myself."

"The- what?" Luke says, hesitating for the first time.

"Oh come on, don't play coy. The one you dumped into my chocolate milk last week, during morning period. The one you thought would make me just the girl you wanted me to be," Becky says, as proud and assertive as her mother ever was. "Well, you know what? I'm stronger than that, and I always will be!"

Astonished, angry, he grabs her wrist-

and gets a faceful of pie for his trouble. I never did like raisins.

Of course that starts a riot; of course Mac drags his princess out of it before the going gets entertaining; of course this story ends with me sleeping out the night in a jail cell. Right across from the one Luke Aidell's in.

"I guess I am well out of it, huh?" he says, after catching my eye.

"Both of you," I agree, and leave it at that.

"We found your cab, by the way," Sergeant Olson tells me. "It was in the police parking lot the whole time. I wish I could tell you somebody was going to be fired over this."

"Not a big deal," I say. "Why don't you let me off the hook next time you think you have something on me, and we'll call it even."

"You're not leaving Mission City?" He looks mightily disappointed.

I think about a girl staring westward out her bedroom window, hardly knowing why she acted as she did tonight, and shrug.

"Next year. After that I'm done, I'll promise you."

"Just in time to catch my retirement party," Olson says, and gives me the ghost of a wink.


End file.
